Chapter Text
[A few days earlier, thirty miles outside the city]
Gareth carried Sam down into the warm, stale air of the bunker, opening the doors and flipping switches, as she wrapped her arms around his neck to let him free his hand, holding him tightly, but carefully. The power of the cold form still arced through her, and it would be so easy to hurt him... actually easier than not to. But this, at least, she hoped to get fixed soon.
As they descended, a thought kept coming—can she trust him in the same way he trusted her, when he came up to the junkyard, naked and empty-handed? All their maneuvering, all the psychological games, all the complex feelings, everything that happened has blurred every line—but was it enough to bury the most basic level of their relation? She was a monster now, and he had been hunting those all his life... For how long can she make him forget that?
When he'd carry her back into her prison, and the light takes away her strength and the numbness... will she ever get out again?
Probably yes. Especially since she had broken the ventilation, which made keeping their previous arrangement impossible. But she couldn't be sure. This doubt, almost crossing into fear, was the first true pang of it she felt since the transformation... and it stirred something else in her, something primal.
It wasn't only about the unwanted power and missing sensations. It was the vulnerability itself that she was craving, being weak, and being subjected to someone else's will again. A kind of desire her conscious mind looked at with disdain.
Yet in this new reality of cold numbness and restraining herself from breaking things... and people... every waking moment, she needed every piece of true feelings she could find, even if the source seemed so... undignified. And irrational.
They crossed into the oven room, lit only by the opening ahead, blindingly white. The lights in the bright room were still on.
"The power utilities must love you."
"I was going to turn that off, but..."
But that would mean she left forever. Nothing is as romantic as the lights of a prison waiting for the prisoner to return. Softness wrapped in creepiness, or was it the other way around? All with a touch of stupid. A signature Gareth move.
As the light hit her when they crossed the threshold and the flames washed over, she uncurled, stretched out in his arms. He stopped to look down over the entire length of her, watching grey skin turning into gold as she trembled. He frowned, unsure if he was seeing something good or bad happening, and Sam didn't really know either. The fire was a part of her now, even when it came from outside—yet it brought the memory of the procedure with it. Was it still the same pain? Did she just... choose... not to feel it? She only knew it was happening quicker every time.
She curled back and snuggled into him. It was no sudden bout of affection, just grabbing onto the new-old sensations as they came back. His hairy torso against her skin, soft and hard and textured all at once. Strong arms pressing into her legs and back, which yielded now, no longer tough as iron.
These missing sensations she needed, and he could provide—that's how far she was ready to go with her feelings for now.
He passed the bunk bed and headed straight under the shower.
"Hey..."
"Yeah, you kind of need to."
"You didn't complain up there."
"It was dark."
"You're ruining the mood, you know?"
"So does the smell."
"Fuck you."
"In a minute, ok?"
If you cannot step twice into the same river, maybe you can't get carried twice into the same shower, she thought uneasily. By the same man, too, though that was difficult to believe. Once a black, masked, armor-clad horror, barking orders, handling her with rough, unstoppable strength, like another problem to solve and not a human being, with no trace of concern for her feelings or her privacy.
Now, the privacy was still non-existent for both of them, but it wasn't as if it was stolen anymore, but simply discarded, no longer needed. And he was still imposing—maybe even more visibly so, with nothing concealing his physique, all the lean, trained muscles of a soldier turned monster hunter, the only thing about his looks he still seemed to care about—but now that he submitted to her, she knew that he'd rather die than kill her.
There was a lot to wash off. Traces of desert dust and Jake's blood she couldn't get rid of in the gas station's bathroom. The grease and dirt of the junkyard. The memories... of the previous time he brought her here. And of the turning. And the awareness that all her vulnerability was now fake.
Still, she let him do it. Letting go and letting him do things was the whole point. He wasn't hurrying this time. His touch was thorough, but gentle.
The anxiety eroded first, washed away by the firm pressure of the warm water on her body, tired and hurting all this time, hidden under the cold form's veil until now.
The memories followed down the drain.
He was moving down, inch by inch.
Sam's knee was swelling, and for this one thing, neither gentle touch nor warm water helped—the pain was getting worse. He noticed her wincing and asked, looking up from where he kneeled, soaping her legs,
"What happened?"
"I broke my leg. Infection healed it... up to a point. I think it needs more blood to finish the job. "
"You were away less than two days and you came back with a broken leg, stolen car, murder on your conscience and, somehow, half a vampiric infection."
"I love packed itineraries."
He hung his head, shaking it, and asked,
"Should I bring you some blood?"
"Not what we came here for. Pain... just means I'm alive. Don't mind it. I won't."
He stared at her for a moment. That was the monster speaking, even if not the vampire kind. Still, he kissed her knee and finished cleaning her.
They moved onto the yoga mat, Gareth not trusting the bunk bed with their combined weight. She fought the urge to take control, but back up there, he promised her to demonstrate how it really worked... so it was his show now. She lay on her back, closed her eyes to shield them from the intense light... and let him work on her.
The opening was obvious, maybe even a little boring, she thought, this time feeling like a referee, not a couch. Though the level of coordination between his lips and the hand he didn't use for support was commendable. They both did seemingly unrelated things, different places and distinct rhythm, but it somehow was rhyming.
Mouth, collarbone, kissing—hand, under the breast, tracing the outline, careful not to touch the sensitive center, yet.
Mouth, traveling the midline up from navel, through sternum, to neck—hand, following its own path on her side, opposite direction, from the armpit down to the hip.
Mouth, finding her lips and kissing—hand, finding the other pair, and... not doing much, not yet. Just brushing, a feather light suggestion that it could do more.
Mouth—
Ok, that's enough... officiating. She had skin in this game, too. A lot of bare skin, all of it craving attention now. Her breath was getting heavy, half from the stale, warm air, half from his touch.
Sam wrapped her legs around him and grabbed his head, but she didn't need to lead him, not this time. Just a little feedback. Fingers across the base of the neck, making him shiver—that means good. Hand in the curly hair, pulling—better.
When he ended up way down, though, she wasn't sure what the feedback should be. The bravery, after what happened the last time he was there, was impressive... but she was beginning to worry he might be a one-trick pony.
Still, it was a decent trick; she decided soon. Worth a full two-hand tug on his hair... maybe even a little moan to go with that.
Too much feedback? He stopped and crawled up, and soon she felt him inside, for the first time not through the numb, cold form. He moved even higher and arched his back, making sure he'd keep the contact on her clit when he started a round motion with his hips.
So... more than one trick. At least two.
It didn't take long from there. And when she could speak again, she said, not minding him still being busy,
"That's cheating, you know? Like calling an Uber to drop you off just before the finish line."
He broke his motion and shifted down a little to get face-to-face.
"I see it more as a triathlon."
"Which part was swimming? Ah, makes sense. Still, the running was more of a sprint."
"And whose fault is that? Hop on there." He patted on the bunk bed. "If you want a marathon, I want a better angle."
*****
Not bad. Not bad at all. She sat on the bunk bed, and he was slumped on the floor next to her leg, recovering. It was all better than she expected. But also... very different. Not how she imagined him behaving. And that difference... she wasn't sure if she liked that. Between what she knew about him and what he did here... wasn't it all somehow... fake? Dishonest?
She got up and walked up to the opposite wall, turning to face him.
"Your turn," she said.
He looked up, disbelieving.
"What do you think I was doing till now?"
He sounded tired, but also unburdened, speaking plainly as if it was coming straight from his core, without filters. Seemed like the intensity and exhaustion stripped away his guilt and anxiety. The closest he was to that before was during their games afternoon, but now it was even clearer. The best chance she ever had to see his real person.
"Servicing me. You did... surprisingly well. But now... what's the phrase... I want you to have your way with me. "
"Why do you think I didn't?"
"It was all too... sweet. Almost innocent. You're a monster, Gareth. Do what you really want."
He got up, his voice getting darker, more serious.
"Whatever that may be?"
He came close, took her thigh, and raised it against his side, so she held it there. Placed his hand on her hip and slid it down, cupping her cheek. The tip of his index finger landed right on her butthole. An accident?
"Whatever," she said.
He squeezed and pulled her up, and the tip of the finger slipped right in. No accident. No surprise, either. Not scary, just... disappointing? Unimaginative for sure.
"Fuck you in every way I can think of?" he whispered, eye level now, just inches apart.
Maybe not that disappointing. A change, for sure. If he only still had the gel around somewhere.
"That's the idea."
His other hand traced her body, not caressing now, but pushing hard on her skin, as if trying to feel what she had, what she was on the inside. That felt real. The hand moved up from the stomach through the chest until it stopped, grabbing her neck. She gasped.
"Maybe get even for this little trick you played on me here last time?" he asked and gripped it harder. Her arms, hanging loose till now, jumped up to stop him, but it was hopeless... and against the point. She let them fall back, gulped, and whispered,
"Why not?"
He let go of her throat and moved the hand down to her breast and squeezed it—way too hard.
"I can't harm you now, right? Not really. You're a perfect toy. I could rough you up... any way I can think of. Cut you up. Break your bones. Stake you out in the desert and whip your skin raw, and then let the sun and the ants have their way with you, until the night and blood reset everything... for another day."
The hand went down to her pussy, and just like that, he put three fingers inside like a hook, and pulled up, stopping just short of lifting her by it. It was getting... unhinged. Almost painful. Almost terrifying. Almost... interesting. She waited a few seconds to get a grip on her voice and said calmly,
"Too time-consuming, I think. But if that's what you like..."
"That's what you like, it seems. I can feel it on my fingers. We're still doing you, not me. Clever girl. All this shit behind us, and you're still manipulating me."
He let her down and took both hands away. She stumbled sideways to free herself, angered by something she didn't quite understand, but he grabbed her wrists, turned her around, and pushed her up against the wall. The hell was he doing now?
"Getting your real body back—wasn't that it? Not... helpless enough?"
His mouth was right next to her neck. San could feel it move as he spoke, a gentle flutter on her skin. She replied with frustration,
"It's broken. Was broken already, before I turned. You did it. And I need... something other than niceness. To get through to me... all the way."
"And I owe you that? I broke you, so I need to keep breaking you harder, until the counter overflows, and you're normal again?"
He was pressing with his entire body now, squeezing her against the cold wall. But that wasn't a threat, she understood, not even a promise. He was literally trying to squeeze honesty out of her.
"You seemed like a guy with... ideas."
"And you seemed like a broken one from the start. Nobody before you came on the stake gun, you know?"
She bit her lip. So he knew. He knew it all along.
"And even if so? What does it change?"
"Nothing. You'd still be the same sick puppy," he said, backing off a little. "And I am that guy. You got it right. I could rip you to pieces with my bare hands, without blinking... just need to convince myself this will help you in the end, that you need it—and nothing would stop me. Not tears, not screams... Remorse, sure, but no hesitation. You've seen it."
"So...?" she asked with a fearful, hazy hope.
"So... some other time. When I am convinced, and not so fucking tired. But now it's my turn. You said it yourself. We're doing me now."
She sighed. That was... progress, at least. A few minutes ago, she wasn't even sure what she was missing, and he helped her find it. Some other time. Was that a promise or dismissal? Still, understandable. It was getting way too late to explore this kind of thing out of the blue. But... so goddamn frustrating.
But what the hell did he want, if not that?
Sam turned back to face him and kneeled, slowly, the damaged leg hurting all the way down—the first idea she had, as obvious as the one about her butt.
"Nothing that easy, sweetheart."
Goddamn freak, she thought as he dragged her towards the bunk bed, slumped on it heavily, leaning his back against the wall, pulling her onto his knees. He trapped her body with his arms, gripping, pressing hard against him.
It's called a hug, girl.
He talked slowly and quietly.
"It's all my fault. I fucked up every part of this, since before we even met, and you paid the price."
"You don't have—"
"Shut the fuck up," he startled her with the commanding mask voice. It worked.
He kept stroking her head and back and holding her tightly with the other arm, mumbling,
"You're safe now. Whatever you are. Whatever you did. Those bad things are over."
That was a lie, and how was it even supposed to fix anything? It's like it wasn't even intended for her... he was just making himself feel better—
Well, yeah. He literally told her that, just before.
Maybe he wasn't so oblivious after all.
Ok. He can have that much. It even was... a nice feeling, maybe, on some level? But she was still stiff in his arms, her body resisting this kind of closeness.
"Remember the relaxation trick? I need you to do this now."
Sam hesitated. It couldn't hurt, could it?
She inhaled, tensed all her muscles, counted to three, and released them slowly. It was better now... less angular. Less difficult to fit against him.
Once more.
"Good. It's all over. Nothing left to guard against. Melt."
She did just that. Clung to him, melted... merged into the hair on his chest like a glass of wine spilled on a shaggy carpet.
"I'm sorry."
He was whispering now, kissing her head in between words.
"I'm so sorry."
Sure, weirdo. Whatever floats your boat, she thought, as the first tears flowed from her eyes and a quiet sob rose from her throat.
*****
Later, when the tears dried and her legs started falling asleep, she wiggled herself from his arms. She made a few steps towards the door, not sure yet where she was going. Then, her bad leg gave way, bringing her to her knees.
Gareth, watching her with a sad, but calm expression, jumped up and rushed in to help, but instead of letting him pick her up, she said,
"I think I'll need some blood after all. To fix all this."
He looked at her skeptically, but stood up and nodded.
"Okay. Let's turn this off," he said, and opened the control panel. The lights dimmed and switched to a neutral, artificial hue, almost gloomy in comparison.
There was something final about it. The lights were on since she first came here. They were waiting for her, shining, when she ran away. A mark of dependency, a physical form for the reason that has kept them together. Why she needed him. Why he had to hold her in.
That part was over. No more clutches—they could walk now, together, or fall apart. Their call now.
Her call.
He left the room, and she carefully stood up and let the cold form take over. Faster every time. Easier.
When he saw her like that, coming back with a few blood bags, he got startled, but he got over it quickly and asked in a light tone,
"Any preferences? Zero, A, B?"
"I'm more of a hobo than a sommelier right now."
He threw one bag at her, keeping himself a few yards away. The surface was unpleasantly cold. Somehow, drinking blood out of a plastic bag seemed even more disgusting.
But when she bit off the edge and the smell hit her, the doubts disappeared. She emptied it like it was a can of beer at a frat party, and then... exactly what she expected happened inside.
Tired or not, Gareth, this night wasn't over yet.
"Wait, wait, let's..." he tried to say as she lurched toward him.